Hippy Church

Once a week, folks wander from out of the jungle forests of Puna to gather together for what I like to call hippy church, a guided group ecstatic dance that takes place in a large performance hale on Kalani’s property, just feet from the ocean. Ecstatic dance is the glue that binds together this oceanside community. Old school hippies with long beards mingle with the younger generation, whose hybrid of high fashion and freedom have created something more resembling ‘hippy chic.’ Little kids run around the wooden floor while friends catch up, hug and stretch. Once everyone has arrived, the group forms itself into a circle encompassing the entirety of the space. A DJ provides a small ‘sermon,’ to set the mood, an intention for the mind and body to carry the group through the experience. Last Sunday was the resident DJ’s last dance. Max was the creator of the weekly get-together and watched it blossom from a group of about ten people to a constant stream of hundreds participating each week. This week Max reflected on friends made and great memories shared, but also looked forward in anticipation to a new move for himself. He talked about how close he felt to the group and how each individual’s beauty and love had helped him to understand the divine that is in each of us. “We’re all divine,” he said, “not just those in this room." This space didn’t hold more or less enlightenment than anywhere else. What made the space created each week in Puna so special for him was how simple it felt, in this setting of love and support, to witness the divine in each other. May it make us each more willing to witness the divine in all those we continue to meet elsewhere.

Then the fun started. The beat began slowly, as the dance space became non-verbal. No speaking, no picture taking. The focus is on the movement, whatever you feel like. This was my first ecstatic dance. I’ll admit I was nervous. For the most part, I’ve always felt a little bit nervous dancing in front of big groups. In front of my mirror, I’ll gyrate to kingdom come. But I didn’t know many people, and felt a little unsure of myself and especially my energy. Would it carry me through the entire experience? I sat and watched. The beat grew from something slow and rhythmic to something more wild and tribal. My eyes darted around the room. What I saw amazed me: everyone was dancing. Not only that, everyone was dancing as though they were in front of their own bathroom mirrors, grooving to their own tunes. Some danced together, others gently danced by themselves. My fear gave way to jealousy. I jumped up and moved myself towards the center of the dance floor, looking out to the ocean, and began to move to the funky beats the DJ mixed. The music grew and grew over the course of about an hour until it finally reached a frenzied, chaotic climax. The floor shook as people jumped wildly up and down, shouting and leaping. The energy radiating from the organism created by hundreds of pulsing bodies was palpable. And my body, which so often feels tired and weary, felt lifted by the energy. I found myself in the middle, shaking and reaching, feeling how delicious it is to connect to this beautiful body this way again, how long I’ve waited to be able to dance like this. It only lasted a moment. My energy ran out quickly. I took myself over to a mat on the side of the space and closed my eyes, letting the DJ gently bring my energy and the energy of the group back down to a stand-still.

An emotion surfaced as I laid there, a deep desire to have had the stamina to have been able to dance longer, and a memory of how my body was able to move before. I cried a bit, mourning the loss of what is no longer, what I wish were. Afterwards, a realization cleared my mind. I wouldn’t be here, in this beautiful, free space, looking out on the ocean, if my body were able to move as it had before. The mourning gave way to gratitude. I am exactly where I need to be. Aloha.

Exploring My Options

I had a conversation tonight that left me rather bugged. I sat next to a man at dinner who identifies himself as a shaman—a healer—a great guy I’ve gotten to know casually since I’ve been at the Big Island retreat. We went a little more in depth tonight, discussing the mind and quantum physics and what vast, uncharted terrain has been left untouched by science regarding the mind’s power. He believes that one is completely, entirely capable of healing oneself. He quoted several examples that were familiar to me, instances where miraculous healing had taken place. This concept isn’t new to me. One of the first days I was hospitalized, nurse Gigi brought me a gift, a copy of Deepak Chopra’s “Quantum Healing,” which outlines an alternative (or complimentary) thought process to western medicine’s approach to healing, centered on the power of the mind. Up until now, I’ve been searching for ways to incorporate mental meditation, focus and control to assist in my healing. But now it seems I’m stepping into new territory, the possibility that I might be capable of entirely healing myself.

This is a terrifying conversation. Rightly so, it’s a conversation that stirs up heated emotions for almost everyone, and everyone has a strong opinion about what is right and what is wrong, or rather what is possible. I’m not quitting chemotherapy tomorrow. Nor am I demonizing it. Far from it. I have deep gratitude for what it has done for me. But I have begun to investigate options, all options. It frightens me to even contemplate doing this. My doctors believe strongly that if I discontinue chemotherapy at this stage, the cancer which we have worked into remission will most certainly come back, more aggressively. To end it now would be reckless. This paradigm has bothered me for a while though, because it is steeped in fear, fear that if I don’t continue this harsh treatment, I risk everything. I have never believed in taking action in my life out of fear, yet I find myself doing it now. So I am beginning to search for alternatives, different belief systems, healing techniques, nutrition and those who understand the practice of self-healing.

Nonetheless, I was peeved big time by my conversation with this man. I was curious to know more about shamanism one day, after hearing the word used so often. Contrary to what I had thought, a shaman is defined as one who has, simply put, healed herself or himself, and is thus capable of leading others through the healing process. Suddenly, my mind began to cast doubt on many of the supposed ‘shaman’ I have encountered: well intentioned, but lacking the crucial element, self-healing. As a wise woman once told me, “God save us all from the healer that hasn’t first healed himself.” It is relatively easy for a person to sit across a dinner table and tell me that I don’t need chemotherapy, that I am capable of doing the job on my own. What they lack, however, is a true grasp of the risk involved in taking that step. I’m no dummy. I haven’t come this far to send myself plummeting towards an early grave. But I am a firm believer in the miraculous and grossly underestimated healing power of our mind, our body, our spirit. Ultimately, it is my decision. I sit alone with the risk. And ultimately, I will choose what I feel is right for me. But in the meantime, I think I may be a little more picky about who I sit next to at dinner.

A Moment's Rest

Form follows thought. This is the first and driving principle behind the healing technique, reiki. The concept had always remained vague for me until I was scrubbing toilets in a guest house this morning. It’s been a rewarding but challenging experience for me to begin working a little bit again, here at the retreat in Hawai’i, rewarding to feel the satisfaction of accomplishment, challenging because even the smallest task can still somehow seem overwhelming for my limited energy. This morning was particularly difficult. I took a dose of methotrexate yesterday—it always makes me tired—and reported for duty at eight-thirty am. By ten-thirty I had exhausted my energy, and I still had an hour to go before a lunch break. Feeling considerable guilt for abandoning my cleaning team, I staggered wearily to a friend known around here simply as “C”, who had mentioned that she practiced reiki. I asked if she would take a minute to help me quiet myself and see if I could regain some strength. She agreed enthusiastically, helped me lay down in a quiet loft in one of the guest houses, and began quietly moving her hands across my limp body.

Suddenly I am running quickly, forcefully, leaping over rocks and crevices, darting at lightening speed. Ahead of me lies the tallest peak of a mountain, and I can feel my body racing towards it, each muscle aching with delicious fire. I pant and heave and sweat, tearing up the steep landscape, feeling alive. I reach the peak and feel my pulse pounding in my neck. It feels good, fantastic even. And the view is spectacular. I stretch my arms out wide, lean my head back and yell with mighty energy.

C’s instruction was simple: dare to imagine yourself completely healed, completely rid of any toxins in your body, all presence of disease and drugs a distant memory. Feel your strength. The execution of this direction was more difficult. I’ve hesitated for some time to visualize moments of boundless energy, afraid of how sad it would make me feel. The tears came up again as she gently rocked me, my heart wanting deeply to be able to do what my body could before. She noticed and quietly invited me to let go of this sorrow bred from attachment, and to believe—if I wanted—that I was where I needed to be in this journey.

C finished and got up slowly. I thought about how long I’d been lying there, and the chores I’d left the group to take care of without me. I wanted immediate strength, but my body remained still, exhausted by the emotional release and appreciating the rest. “You know,” C said, “you could stay there lying down for a while if you wanted and none of us would mind. In fact, you could believe if you wanted to that lying there on the blanket is exactly where you should be right now.” I smiled as she left the loft, laid back down and closed me eyes, enjoying exactly where I was.

The Healing Island

I have been momentarily transported. I am no longer in a hospital bed, or laying on a couch, gazing at shoppers. I am no longer in a world I know. I am sitting on the edge of a precipice, staring down a jagged volcanic cliff at the crashing blue waves rolling back, collecting power, and forcefully smashing against the wall, sending a spray of white foam rocketing up into the sky. I am surrounded by a carpet of bright green ferns; my feet disappear under the canopy. I look ahead and see tall palm trees leaning over the cliff as though they’re waiting to jump. I look behind and see a dense, foreboding jungle of vines, parted like a curtain to reveal the dark forest behind, mystical and ancient. I pick up my guitar and strum the first few chords of a song. I am interrupted. A sea turtle lifts its head from beneath the water’s surface. It bobs up and down, patiently waiting for me to finish the song. Slowly it returns back to its business. Suddenly, the mist from the ocean catches the fading sun reflecting off the vine forest and creates a rainbow in the sky, lasting only for a moment. And I sigh. I am no longer in a world I know.

The Big Island of Hawai’i is also called the ‘healing island.’ The goddess who rules the island, Pele, is not known however for her gentle demeanor. She is vengeful, destructive, mighty. The red lava that flows from her fountainhead and decimates villages at random reminds those who live on the island that creation is birthed from destruction. Locals refer to her with reverence and humility. They seem to understand that healing is not a gentle process. But Pele is not without compassion. My first night, I sat across from a new friend, a dreaded yogi, at dinner. He told me that while I was on the island, my healing would be accelerated by Pele’s power. But first, it would be necessary to make her an offering. As I fell asleep that night, I dreamt of this past year. The path I’ve been walking has left me with little to offer a goddess. I feel depleted and worn. The strength and force of cancer have brought me to my knees in humility and changed me almost to the point of being unrecognizable to myself. I feel like a small village, annihilated by molten lava, broken down and destroyed. I was driving past a village like this, now a black lava bed, and noticed new houses being erected. Why do they build, when they know Pele is just as likely to bring her wrath on them again next year? But maybe it isn’t wrath at all. Maybe reconciliation is not a gentle process. Maybe it is only through the violent destruction of our foundation that we recognize with clarity how to build it stronger. Or maybe we build it to be destroyed, and it is destroyed to be rebuilt.

Healing is not gentle. It is standing on a precipice, inches from dropping into the force of the violent wave crashing against the cliff, inches from losing yourself in the dark and tangled forest. But healing is the beauty created when those forces collide to form a rainbow, and you are blessed—if only for a moment—to witness it.